“Where?” Webster said.

“Right-hand lane, about…six, seven car lengths behind.”

Webster’s eyes went to his rearview mirror, then slowed the ’Cuda to a speed less than the flow of traffic. “I don’t see it.”

“It’s there, take my word for it.”

Webster braked again. Within moments, the Lincoln came into view. He grinned. “Gotcha, baby!”

Martinez sat back, let out a deep breath. “You almost got us killed.”

Webster said nothing. Then he started to laugh. A moment later, so did Martinez. He hit his partner’s shoulder. “Son of a bitch! Drive like that again, you’ll never father another child.”

The ’Cuda cruised at a safe speed, allowing the Lincoln to gain distance until they were neck-and-neck. Martinez gave Waterson a quick once-over through the luxury sedan’s rolled-up window. Dark jacket, tie, and sunglasses. Stubby fingers gripped onto the wheel. Full cheeks, white hair, liver lips.

Martinez said, “Drop back about a hundred feet. Not too quickly. Move nice and easy. We don’t want him to suspect anything.”

Webster did as told. “Why would Waterson suspect anything, let alone a tail?”

“Because guilty people always suspect something. Mark my word, Tommy. Hanging around Sanchez, Waterson’s hiding something. I believe in guilt by association.”

“Hang around scum, you become scum.” Webster thought about the statement. “Sort of a social Lamarckian concept, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Maybe he’s only doing his duty as executor of Sparks’s estate.”

“What duty?”

Webster said, “Maybe Sparks left Sanchez money for the cause. Waterson could just be the delivery boy.”

“Waterson as Sanchez’s delivery boy?” Martinez smiled. “Remind me never to hire you as a chauffeur or a casting director.”

“You put it that way, it don’t make much sense.” Webster paused. “Did the family read the will yet?”

“I don’t know.”

From the 5 South, Webster hooked back on the 405 South. As he tailed the Lincoln, he suddenly noticed the flash of Waterson’s right-hand blinker.

Martinez said, “He’s getting off at Devonshire.”

“I see it.”

“Not so close.”

“I know, I know. Take it easy.”

“Sorry. I just don’t want to mess up at this point.”

Webster laughed. “We’re proceeding ’bout as fast as the infamous white Bronco.”

“Son of a bitch should have shot himself,” Martinez groused. “Saved us all a shitload of money. Millions of dollars flushed down the crapper and for what? He’s turning right, Tom.”

“I see him. He’s heading west.”

The Lincoln moved swiftly down the broad, pine-lined boulevard, past small, worn ranch houses resting on an area rug’s worth of land. The neighborhood had hosted thousands of citrus trees with their sweet blossoms and succulent fruit. Not many had survived the transition from agriculture to suburbia. Only a couple hundred stalwarts favored the land with their aromatic perfume, sweet edibles, and delectable shade during the sweltering West Valley summers.

As the road stretched westward, the homes gave way to apartment buildings, factory showrooms, and lots of corner gas stations and strip malls. Farther west, the area once again became open space as the boulevard neared the foothills.

Martinez said, “He’s going toward the Santa Susanas.”

“From one mountain range to another.” Webster pulled out a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth. “Maybe Waterson and Sanchez are partners in a chain of chop shops. Sanchez does the dirty work, Waterson does the finances. An interesting albeit farfetched concept. But whoda thought Sparks would involve himself with a bunch of bikers.”

Waterson entered the West Hills area, slowed, then turned on his left-hand blinker, heading straight into a tree-lined residential area.

Martinez said, “Pass him up.”

“Why?”

“Because the ’Cuda doesn’t have enough cover in such a quiet neighborhood. Pass him up.”

Webster kept the ’Cuda going straight, watching the Lincoln turn in his rearview mirror. “Now what?”

“Turn left at the next opportunity.”

Webster did as told. “Backtrack?”

“You know what? I think I know where he’s headed.” Martinez punched open the glove compartment, pulled out a street map. “We’re about a mile away from Sparks’s house. Go straight about…half a mile, then turn right on Orchard, left on Vine, then left on Alta Vista. Betcha we’ll find the car there.”

Webster raised his brow. “You sure you want to lose him at this point?”

“We’re too visible to follow him, Tom. After what happened to Sparks, he may even think that someone’s out to get him. Just trust me on this.”

They rode the next few minutes in tense silence. As Webster neared the Sparks house, he slowed the ’Cuda, took in the neighborhood. Large two-story homes on what seemed like big parcels of land. But the construction was only serviceable at best. Composite wood-sided housing or thin, textured stucco jobs. All of the homes were roofed in adobe-colored Spanish tile, giving the blocks uniformity. Giant carob trees shaded the streets. Dirt sidewalks.

Fancy area for a guy like Webster. But he couldn’t help wondering why a guy as rich as Sparks would have chosen this over Beverly Hills or Malibu, or at the very least, one of the million-dollar developments in Granada Hills.

Sparks’s home sat by itself at the mouth of a cul-de-sac. Parked in the driveway was Waterson’s Lincoln.

“Bert one, Tom zero.” Webster did a three-pointer and turned around. “Now what?”

Martinez picked up the cell phone and called Decker.

“That was fast,” Decker said. “Where are you?”

“In front of Sparks’s house. Waterson’s Lincoln is parked in the driveway. You want us to pay a visit?”

“No. Right now, I want you to go over to impound and start taking the Sparkses’ Buick apart. Good job, guys.”

“What about Waterson?”

“I’m scheduled to see the widow today at three. So I’ll drop by a little early.”

Martinez glanced at the ’Cuda’s clock. “A little early? It’s straight-up noon, Loo.”

“My oh my,” Decker said. “My watch is running fast.”

Michael answered the door, seemed surprised by Decker’s appearance. The young man wore a crewneck sweater over a vanilla shirt, khaki pants, and loafers. He fiddled with his collar, looked over his shoulder as if waiting for someone to come to his rescue. “I thought you were coming later.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience. May I come in?”

The med student was hesitant. “My mother is kind of indisposed right now.”

Decker stood firm. “I’m really sorry for coming at an awful time.”

Michael ran his hand through a thick nest of black curls. Uncertainty seemed to be his hallmark. “Could you hold on a second?”

“Of course.”

The door closed, reopened a minute later. Mike had brought reinforcements in the form of older brother Paul, both of them staring at Decker with the same deep blue eyes. Strong fraternal resemblance. But the med student was slimmer, younger, and sans tic.

Paul said, “Mom’s resting. If it’s important, I’ll fetch her.”

“The sooner I talk to her, the better.”

Paul’s eyes moved at shutter speed. “So it’s important?”

“You have a breakthrough?” Michael asked excitedly.

“Not yet, I’m afraid. May I come in?”

The door opened completely, and Decker walked inside. Sitting on the family-room couch was the man with the veiny nose. He stood when he saw Decker, regarded Paul with questioning eyes.

“This is Lieutenant Decker, principal investigator of my father’s case,” Paul said. “Lieutenant, William Waterson, my father’s lawyer.”

Decker shook the attorney’s hand-firm grip, but not bone-crushing. The lawyer was about four inches shorter than Decker, around six even. His face held a drinker’s complexion, but his eyes were strong and lucid.